


remembrance of things past

by worrylesswritemore



Category: Something Rotten! - Kirkpatrick/Kirkpatrick/O'Farrell
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, admittedly - the nick/will is more like will has a crush on nick, also i think i got details wrong (nigel had said that will never knew him in the acting troupe), and explains why he and nick hate each other so much, but shh we're all just trying to have fun here you know?, it's basically a precanon fic about shakespeare's life in the acting troupe with the bottoms, the ship itself never comes to fruition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 04:50:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12833664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worrylesswritemore/pseuds/worrylesswritemore
Summary: “You know, it’s actually good,” Nick acknowledges after a pause, giving Will a crooked smile, “Honestly, Will, you’re a much better writer than actor.”“Bite your tongue.” Will warns.:: - ::Or, how William Shakespeare - not yet a bard, much lessTheBard - became one of the greatest minds that England has ever known, and just how much the Bottom Brothers had to do with his rebranding.





	remembrance of things past

**Author's Note:**

> **SONNET 30**
> 
>  
> 
> _When to the sessions of sweet silent thought_  
>  I summon up remembrance of things past,  
> I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,  
> And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:  
> Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow,  
> For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,  
> And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,  
> And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:  
> Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,  
> And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er  
> The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,  
> Which I new pay as if not paid before.  
> But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,  
> All losses are restor'd and sorrows end.

Will owes it— _all_ of it — to _him_.

:: - ::

At the age of twenty-three, William Shakespeare is cold, homeless, and on the verge of starvation.

Which, _admittedly_ , is pretty common for twenty-somethings in the 1580s, so most would agree that he’s actually right on track in life.

“You know, I’m going to be famous,” Will says, perhaps a bit madly, to the pile of rags resting next to him on the street corner, “I’m going to be a famous _actor_ and _everyone_ is going to know my name and I’ll get all the ale and sex and _food_ and—”

Apparently mistaking his pitiful pale for a garbage container, a finely dressed man deposits a crumpled parchment rather than a few coins. The air and gusto leave Will almost immediately as he can practically feel the bones of his ribcage rub sores on the insides of his stretched skin.

Drenched in rage, Will snatches the poster and rips it into two, letting the harsh wind carry it off to lie with the rest of the swill that lies in the streets.

“You realize,” The pile of rags says suddenly, and it’s only then that Will realizes that there is _a living thing_ under all of that rubbish, “That was a poster calling for young, hotshot actors to audition for a troupe, don’t you?”And _no,_ Will did not realize that.

And with a noise akin to that a deranged, starved artist, Will dives into the street and starts chasing after the wind.

He gets bumped and scorned and knocked to the ground a couple of times before he finally gets his hands on the two pieces of torn paper. Quickly, he stuffs them into his pants and runs back to the safety of his street corner, ignoring the pile of rags that smiles mockingly at him.

Will scrambles to fit the two pieces together, and his breath catches as soon as he reads the words:

_Actors wanted._

“Did you know that?” Will says, turning to smile smugly at the pile, _“I’m wanted.”_

A million thoughts buzz through his mind: _need nice clothes, need a soliloquy prepared, need a new pen to sign that shiny contract, need—_

“If you give up panhandling for acting, you’ll be dead by the first of next year.” The pile of rags tells him gravelly, but the words mean nothing to Will.

Because he’s _not_ like the others. He’s going to _make it_ —or, he supposes, die trying.

:: - ::

The day of the auditions, he is the only _wanted actor_ to show. Presumably the patron—a weasley, greasy man with more fat on one arm than Will has in his entire body—scowls at him like his interest pains him. Behind the patron, a slew of young men watch Will expectantly, their expressions ranging from derision to hope to vacancy.

All except one actor—with a crop of mussed dark hair and eyebrows that are easily mistakable for caterpillars—who is the only one looking at him with (although meek but still ever present) consideration.

On that poor excuse of a stage, Will gives the best performance of his life (which he supposes now, objectively, is mere mediocre at best). However, after his last utterance, the crowd of men is silent. And then they all—even the _patron_ , oddly enough—look to that caterpillar-browed man, searching for his approval.

The man shrugs, as if the determination of Will’s future is child’s play, “Yeah, you’ll do.”

:: - ::

Living as an actor, as William Shakespeare comes to discover quite quickly, is spent less time actually _acting_ and more time just struggling to survive.

But well, Will was already doing that latter portion as a beggar, so this is actually considered a step-up in his book.

“Nick, I just feel like this is wrong.” One of the actors—a young, soft-spoken teenager whose presence always slips Will’s mind—says anxiously, wringing his hands together.

The caterpillar-browed man, who Will now knows to be a gruff chap named Nicolaus Bottom, rolls his eyes and says, “Nigel, this is just an _acting exercise_ —which will also coincidentally compel people to give us food.”

The boy grimaces, “Do you ever _hear_ yourself when you talk like that?”

“Yes,” Nick affirms, “And I sound very smart and reasonable and virtuous. Now, Will, start pretending like you have the Plague. I didn’t spend two hours pasting fake boils on you for you to act _healthy_.”

Will promptly feigns disease, balancing his weight on Nick’s shoulder. The man’s arm swiftly comes up to secure Will’s balance by his waist, anchoring the two men together.

As they stumble among the crowd of frightful vendors, Nick yells, teary-eyed and complete and utter horseshit, “A bottle of ale and a loaf for my dying brother.”

That night, as Will is picking the lumps of clay from his skin and nibbling at the last remnants of charred bread, he can’t help but continue to dream—of pretty people and fancy parties and cheering crowds and the name _Shakespeare_ on every tongue of London.

On the bare-threaded cot beside his own, Nick Bottom turns to lie on his side to face him, making it clear to Will that he’s not the only one who can’t sleep.

“So, how have you been adjusting?” Nick asks politely after a long stretch of silence, because any longer and it would just be uncomfortable.

Will looks around at the snoring, filthy men all huddled in the cold shadow of the back of the makeshift theater building.

“Before, I was sleeping in filth with rubbish all around me,” Will says and then glances around, grimacing in distaste as one of the sleeping men picks shamelessly at his own ass, “My circumstances have yet to change.”

Nick Bottom sighs and turns to lie on his back, looking at the stars, “But they will, I promise.”

Will snorts and doesn’t bother to stifle his eye-roll.

Nick looks over at him, vaguely insulted and defensive, “What?”

“You can promise everyone else that, alright?” Will says, picking another boil from his skin and wincing as the paste takes off a layer of skin, “Your mates, your brother, your patron, yourself—but don’t ‘ _promise’_ me. I’d rather die on an empty stomach than on empty promises.”

“You don’t believe in us?” Nick demands, and he sounds just as curious as he does angry.

“I believe in me.” Will answers, “I don’t depend on other people, Nick Bottom—especially not people like you.” Picking at another fake boil, he looks over at him and continues, “Because people like Nick Bottom always promise the world but can barely afford to give me a star.

“And without fail, either out of your own charisma or other’s sheer desperation, you garner followers and true believers. But I’m sorry—I’m not one of them.”

Because Will is already busy being disappointed in himself—no need to add onto the list.

Nick stares at him, the rage in his gaze enough to melt all the wax in the England, “You know, the insult itself is well-written, but your line-delivery was a bit subpar.” And with that, Nick dramatically flops over so that his back is facing him.

Through the cheap, thin material of his shirt, Will can see the muscles in Nick’s back tense and flex, as if he really is holding the world on his shoulders _literally_ rather than just figuratively.

Will flicks a boil at Nick’s head, “Goodnight, Sweet Prince.”

:: - ::

Will wouldn’t call them _friends_ or anything ghastly like that.

They work together—on plays and on cons, on designing and sewing, onstage and off.

Will and Nick find a dynamic that works within the troupe—begrudged colleagues that bicker constantly but always work together because no one else is worth a damn.

“You sweat like you’ve never known a hard day of work.” Nick teases as they tirelessly mop the stage.

Will throws the rag at him, trying to control his ragged breathing, “That’s because I was always considered too pretty to do actual work.”

Nick looks him up and down, and then he shrugs, looking like he can’t really argue with that but he’s going to try anyway, “More like too lazy.”

“Nick, I—” The Other Bottom suddenly bursts onto stage, trekking in muck on the floor that Will had _just_ cleaned.

“Oh,” The teen says, apologetic and nervous, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were cleaning. I’ll—”

“Nonsense, come here!” Nick says, his gruff face lighting up at the sight of his puny brother, “I’ve been waiting all morning for you.”

Sheepishly, Nigel walks over to Nick and thrusts a piece of parchment at him. Taking the excuse to quit working, Will walks over and takes a peep over Nick’s shoulders.

The words on the parchment are small and precise, but they paint a world of metaphor and allusion and heartache.

“This is incredible, Nathan.” Will breathes out, vaguely bereft at paying out such a compliment even though it is well deserved.

“Uh, Nigel, actually.” The teenager corrects but then asks, “Do you really think so?”

“Of course,” Will looks over at Nick, smiling a little too mockingly, “Jesus, I had no idea that it was _Nicky_ riding on _your_ coattails all along, Nadia.”

“It’s _Nigel_.” Nick corrects sharply, unpasting his eyes from the parchment to glare at him.

Will blinks, confused, “What did I say?”

Ignoring Will, Nick looks at his brother and smiles brighter than Will had ever seen before, and it does wonders to the man’s face.

It almost makes the sour grape look _handsome_.

“This is _amazing_ , Bro.” Nick praises, sincerity in his voice “That imagery! That metaphor! I could practically _taste_ the yellow-red ripened peach that is the rising sun!”

“Oh, it’s kinda stupid though,” Nigel snatches the parchment from Nick’s hands, crumbling it a little in his fist, “I mean, like, it’s a first draft and I haven’t looked over it and it’s stupid when you say it out loud and—”

Will sighs and shakes his head, already exhausted over this interaction, “Napalm, just take the compliments, alright?”

Nigel crumbles the parchment further but he agrees quietly, “Uh—Okay.”

Giving Will a dirty look, Nick clasps Nigel on the back, “You continue to write, okay? Because this right here is— _golden!_ _”_

“You think Mom would have been proud?”

The smile on Nick’s face dims a little and a tendon in his jawline jumps.

“Yeah, of course,” Nick says, his speech faltering a little, “And _I_ am proud of you.”

Nigel looks at his brother, adoration and respect plain on his face. It should _flatter_ Nick—to have someone look at him like that (Will knows that it would flatter he himself, at least)—but it seems to only make the man's smile tighter.

Because it must be a lot of pressure, Will idly reckons, to have someone’s complete and total admiration. He wonders if he himself could take it before ultimately deciding that _of course he could._

After Nigel finally leaves, Will and Nick wash over the muddied footprints on the stage.

Nick catches Will looking at him and scowls, demanding, “What?”

“Nothing,” Will says coyly, “I just never knew you could be supportive.”

A corner of Nick’s mouth twitches, “Jealous?”

“Of a fifteen-year-old?” Will laughs a little too loudly to be considered sincere, “Hardly.”

:: - ::

The next play, after Will gets meek, polite applause for his performance, Nick meets him backstage.

“You did incredible, Shakespeare!” Nick professes, and Will gets the vague idea that he’s mocking him somehow, “That line-delivery! That emotion! I could practically taste the blood as you died onstage!”

Will looks at him and scoffs, a smile curling on his lips, “Is this about me wanting you to be more supportive?”

Nick returns his smile, waggling his bushy eyebrows, “I’m nailing it, aren’t I?”

And it’s a little _charming_ , in a ridiculous sort of way.

But Will just shrugs and deadpans, “Your delivery could use some work.”

:: - ::

When Will isn’t rehearsing lines or conning people for handouts or antagonizing Nick Bottom, he writes.

It’s not his favorite thing to do in the world (far from it, actually), but it’s a way to pass the time and keep his mind sharp.

Sometimes, when he’s desperate for any kind of recognition, he lets Nick read it.

“That’s not a real word.” Nick points out, laughing a little at it, “ _Bedroom_ —how ridiculously simplistic.”

“You understand it, don’t you?” Will points out tiredly, to which Nick shrugs and nods.

“ _Swagger,_ huh?” He continues to list off, squinting at the parchment, “You know, if you want people to like it, you might want to use words that are actually — you know, _existent_.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Will snatches the parchment from Nick’s hands, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You know, it’s actually good,” Nick acknowledges after a pause, giving Will a crooked smile, “Honestly, Will, you’re a much better writer than actor.”

“Bite your tongue.” Will warns.

:: - ::

The next play, Nick thinks he’s being _cute_ when he does the casting.

“….And the role of The Bard was played by up-and-coming actor William Shakespeare!”

Someone in the crowd throws a tomato and it strikes Will right in his perfectly sculpted nose.

Beside him on stage, Nick glances over and shrugs, smiling a little sadly. His tired eyes say, _Looks like we’re having tomato soup tonight._

And it doesn't make things _okay_ , per se, but it does make things _better_.

:: - ::

Late at night, as everyone else has gone to sleep, they often keep one another awake—either by trading insults, exchanging in harmless banter, or simply by keeping quiet and feeling the ever present warmth of each other's body so dangerously close together.

This night in particular, they're both feeling a bit sentimental, so they talk about their dreams.

“More money than I even know what to do with,” Will lists off dreamily, curled up in his gnappy cot, “Ladies and Gents tearing at my clothes, people screaming my name, getting recognized _everywhere_ _—_ ”

“Being famous,” Nick cuts him off, yawning, “Yeah, I get the picture.”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Will challenges, defensive at the man’s bored tone, “That’s what _everyone_ wants.”

Nick hums, saying, “I want a country house, actually—with Nigel, and, and maybe a _partner_ , and maybe a couple of _kids_.”

Will rolls his eyes, “Boring.”

“I could perform plays in the day and then curl up by the fireplace at night,” Nick continues, as if caught up by the fantasy, “And it wouldn’t smell like piss all the time, and my kids could have a backyard to play in.”

Will realizes all too well when one of Nick’s rants might take awhile, so he settles into his cot and closes his eyes.

“And we could go swimming in nearby a pond on hot days,” Nick says, his low, soft voice lulling Will to sleep, “And then we can rehearse as loud as we wanted to because there would be no curfew. And we could plant crops and raise animals, so we wouldn’t starve…” And it isn’t _Will’s_ idea of a perfect future—not by a long shot—but hearing Nick explain it all in such vivid, perfect detail, he’d almost be tempted to want it too.

:: - ::

Will and Nick are enjoying a trivial card game when something extraordinary happens.

“You’re cheating!” Nick accuses sullenly, narrowing his eyes at him.

Will rolls his eyes, “No, you’re just losing.” And that's  _true_ , even though Will technically _is_ cheating, he admits.

Nick sighs and says, not wanting to pick a fight for once, “Go again, then.”

“We should make this interesting,” Will proposes, smiling coyly at him “Let’s add strip into the mix.”

Nick gives him a suffering look, “This isn’t a burlesque show.” He points out, “I’m not taking off my clothes for you that easily.”

“Don’t I know it.” Will murmurs, enjoying the way that it makes Nick’s brow knit in confusion.

Suddenly, Nigel comes trampling in like a horse without a rider.

“Guys!” He croaks, out of breath.

Like _always,_ Nick immediately tends to his younger brother's side as Will pointedly shuffles the cards (and tucks the ace up his sleeve)

Nick straightens Nigel, shaking him a little when the boy won't speak, “Jesus, Bro, what’s gotten into you?”

 _Cockblocking apparently,_ Will supplies bitterly.

In lieu of a response, Nigel just thrusts a parchment out at Nick, the interaction vaguely reminding Will of his own parchment that he had found that led him to this pathetic troupe months earlier.

Because Nick is too distracted by his spazz of a brother, Will grabs the parchment and reads it, his breath catching in his throat.

And this—this could change _everything._

“Uh, Nicky?” Will says calmly, light-headed, “I think you might want to read this one.”

Nick rolls his eyes and takes it, grumbling, “Why is everyone so—” And he stops, the exasperation leaving him. He reads the parchment again and again, his eyes scanning and rescanning so much so, it's a wonder that they don't start bleeding.

“The Committee is looking for a new play to take to the national theater,” Nick reads aloud, breathless, “All entries are welcome—and the winner will get a national run with one showing of which a private audience of the Queen and her Party will attend.”

"We have a troupe," Nigel suddenly gets his breathing back, "We have costumes, and—well, we don't have a winning play, but we have time to write one.

“We can do _this!_ ” He explains, hopeful before his ingrained anxiety catches up with him and he adds more questioningly, “I mean, we _can_ do that, can’t we?”

He looks at Nick like he always does—face hopeful and trusting. Will fully expects him to plaster on that fake bright smile, to say _of course we can,_ to say _I promise._

But he doesn't do that.

No, instead, as had _never_ before happened, _Nick_ looks over at _Will_ _—_ facescared and searching.

And it’s absolutely _dizzying_ , to be looked at like that.

With a surge of power, Will finds his voice, promising heartily, “Of course we can!”

He joins the Bottom brothers and throws his arms around both of them, “With Nick’s brains and Nana’s writing and my acting, we can make the best play that London has ever seen!”

And at that time, it _seemed_ _so right._ And it _could have been_ _so right._

But then _William Shakespeare_ does what _William Shakespeare_ ultimately becomes known to do:

Without pause or apology, he screws everyone over.

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a short little three-parter that explores Shakespeare's dynamic with the Bottom Brothers before he became THE Bard.   
> Hopefully, you'll enjoy reading it as much as I do writing it. If you do like it, please consider leaving a review/kudos!! It genuinely helps me and this story more than you could ever fathom.
> 
> As always, my tumblr is @moreracquetball.


End file.
